II
A sound of footfalls, hesitating but apparently making no attempt at concealment, came from the bend of the trail beyond the wallow; and the great white bull wheeled savagely to see what was approaching. As he glared, however, the angry ridge of hair cresting his neck sank amiably. A young cow, attracted by his calls and the noise of the battle, was coming around the thicket.
At the edge of the thicket, not a dozen paces from the black ooze-bed of the wallow, the cow paused coyly, as if doubtful of her welcome. She murmured in her throat, a sort of rough allurement which seemed to the white bull’s ears extraordinarily enticing. He answered, very softly, and stepped forward a pace or two, inviting rather than pursuing. Reassured, the young cow advanced confidently and eagerly to meet him.
At this moment, out from the heart of the thicket plunged a towering black form, with wide, snarling jaw’s agleam in the moonlight. It seemed to launch itself through the air, as if from a height. One great, taloned paw struck the young cow full on the neck, a crashing blow, shattering the vertebrae through all their armour of muscle. With a groan the stricken cow sank down, her outstretched muzzle smothered in the ooze of the wallow; and the monstrous bulk of the bear fell upon her, tearing the warm flesh hungrily.
In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, the most hot-headed and powerful bull of the caribou will shrink from trying conclusions with a full grown black bear. The duel, as a rule, is too cruelly one-sided. The bear, on the other hand, knows that a courageous bull is no easy victim; and the monster ambuscaded in the thicket had been waiting for one or both of the rivals to be disabled before making his attack. The approach of the young cow had been an unexpected favour of the Powers that order the wilderness; and in clutching his opportunity he had scornfully and absolutely put the white bull out of the reckoning.
But this bull was the exceptional one, the one that confounds generalizations, and confirms the final supremacy of the unexpected. He was altogether fearless, indifferent to odds, and just now flushed with overwhelming victory. Moreover, he was aflame with mating ardour; and the mate of his desire had just been brutally struck down before his eyes. For a moment or two he stood bewildered, not daunted, but amazed by the terrific apparition and the appalling event. Then a mad fire raged through all his veins, his great muscles swelled, the stiff hair on his neck and shoulders stood straight up, his eyes went crimson–and without a sound he charged across the wallow.
When the bulls of the caribou kin fight each other, the weapons of their sole dependence are their antlers. But when they fight alien enemies they are wont to hold their heads high and strike with the battering, knife-edged weapons of their fore-hoofs. The bear, crouched upon his quivering prey, was too absorbed and too scornful to look for any assault. The bull was upon him, therefore, before he had time to guard his exposed flank. From the corner of his eye, he saw a big glistening shape which reared suddenly above him, and, clever boxer that he was, he threw up a ponderous forearm to parry the blow. But he was too late. With all the force of some seven hundred pounds of rage, avenging rage, behind him, these great hoofs, with their cutting edges, came down upon his side, smashing in several ribs, and gashing a wide wound down into his loins. The shock was so terrific that his own counter stroke, usually so swift and unerring, went wild altogether, and he was sent rolling clear of the body of his prey.
Instantly upon delivering his stroke, the white bull had pranced lightly aside, knowing well enough the swift and deadly effectiveness of a bear’s paw. But he struck yet again, almost, it seemed, in the same breath, and just as the bear was struggling up upon his haunches. Frantically, out of his astonishment, fury, and pain, the bear attempted to guard. He succeeded, indeed, in warding off those deadly hoofs from his flank; but he caught an almost disabling blow on the point of the left shoulder, putting his left forearm out of business. With a squawling grunt he swung about upon his haunches, bringing his right toward the enemy, and sat up, savagely but anxiously defensive.
Sore wounded though he was, the bear was not yet beaten. One fair buffet of his right paw, could he but land it in the proper place,–on nose, or neck, or leg–might yet give him the victory, and let him crawl off to nurse his hurts in some dense covert, leaving his broken foe to die in the wallow. But the white bull, though he had underrated his former antagonist, was in no danger of misprizing this one. He was now as wary as he had, in the previous case, been rash. Moreover, he had had a dreadful object lesson in the power of the bear’s paw. The body of the cow before him kept him from forgetting.
Stepping restlessly from side to side, threatening now with hoof and now with antlers, he seemed each instant upon the point of a fresh attack; and the bear, with swaying muzzle and blazing, shifting eyes, kept following his every motion. Again and again he gathered his muscles for a fresh charge–but each time he checked himself with a realization that the body of the slain cow was exactly in his way, hampering his avoidance of a counter-stroke.
After some minutes of this feinting, the caribou stood still, deliberating some new move. Instantly the bear, also, became motionless as a stone. The sudden peace was like a shock of enchantment, a violent sorcery, and over it the blue-white, flooding shine of the moonlight seemed to take on some sinister significance. The seconds lengthened out as a nightmare, till at last the stupendous stillness was broken by the wild clamour of a loon, far down on the lake. As the distant cry shrilled up the mountainside, the white bull stirred, shook his antlers, and blew loudly through his nostril. It was a note of challenge–but in it the bear divined a growing hesitancy. Perhaps, after all, this fight, which had gone so sorely against him, might not have to be fought out! He dropped, whirled about so quietly one could hardly follow the motion–and in a flash was up again on his haunches, right paw uplifted, eyes blazing vigilant defiance. But he had retreated several feet in that swift manœuvre! His move was a confusion of defeat–but his attitude was a warning that he was dangerous in defeat. The bull followed, but only for a couple of steps, which brought him so that he bestrode the body of the cow. Here he halted, still threatening; and again the two confronted each other motionlessly.
This time, however, the spell was broken by the bear himself. Suddenly he repeated his former manœuvre; and again turned to face his adversary. But the bull did not follow. Without a movement he stood, as if content with his victory. And after a few moments the bear, as if realizing that the fight was over, flung himself aside from the trail and went limping off painfully through the bushes, keeping a watchful eye over his shoulder till he vanished into a bunch of dense spruce against the mountainside.
The white bull eyed his going proudly. Then he looked down at the torn and lifeless body between his feet. He had not really taken note of it before. Now he bent his head and sniffed at it with wondering interrogation. The spreading blood, still warm, smote his nostrils; and all at once, it seemed, death and the fear of death were borne in upon his arrogant heart. He tossed his head, snorting wildly, flung himself clear of the uncomprehended, dreadful thing upon the ground, bounded over the wallow as if it, too, had grown terrifying, and fled away up the trail through the merciless, unconcealing moonlight, till he reached the end of the open shelf and a black wood hid his sudden fear of the unknown.
Sonny and the Kid
THE little old gray house, with its gray barn and low wagon shed, stood in the full sun at the top of a gullied and stony lane. Behind it the ancient forest, spruce and fir and hemlock, came down and brooded darkly over the edge of the rough, stump-strewn pasture. The lane, leading up to the house from the main road, climbed between a sloping buckwheat field on the one hand and a buttercupped meadow on the other. On either side of the lane, cutting it off from the fields, straggled a zigzag snake fence, with milk-weed, tansy, and mullein growing raggedly in its corners.
At the head of the lane, where it came out upon the untidy but homely looking yard, stood a largish black and tan dog, his head on one side, his ears cocked, his short stub of a tail sticking out straight and motionless, tense with expectation. He was staring at a wagon which came slowly along the main road, drawn by a jogging, white-faced sorrel. The expression in the dog’s eyes was that of a hope so eager that nothing but absolute certainty could permit him to believe in its approaching fulfilment. His mouth was half open, as if struggling to aid his vision.
He was an odd looking beast, formidable in his sturdy strength and his massiveness of jaw; and ugly beyond question, but for the alert intelligence of his eyes. A palpable mongrel, he showed none the less that he had strains of distinction in his ancestry. English bull was the blood most clearly proclaimed, in his great chest, short, crooked legs, fine coat, and square, powerful head. His pronounced black and tan seemed to betray some beagle kinship, as did his long, close-haired ears. Whoever had docked his tail, in his defenceless puppyhood, had evidently been too tender-hearted to cut those silken and sensitive ears. So Sonny had been obliged to face life in the incongruous garb of short tail and long ears–which is almost as unpardonable as yellow shoes with a top hat.
When the wagon drew close to the foot of the lane, Sonny was still uncertain. There might be other white faced sorrels than lazy old Bill. The man in the wagon certainly looked like his beloved master, Joe Barnes; but Joe Barnes was always alone on the wagon-seat, while this man had a child beside him, a child with long, bright, yellow hair and a little red cap. This to Sonny was a bewildering phenomenon. But when at last the wagon turned up the lane, his doubts were finally resolved. His stub of a tail jerked spasmodically, in its struggle to wag. Then with two or three delirious yelps of joy he started madly down the lane. At the sound of his voice the door of the gray house opened. A tall, thin woman in a bluish homespun skirt and red calico waist came out, and moved slowly across the yard to welcome the new arrivals.
When Sonny, yelping and dancing, met the creaking wagon as it bumped its way upward over the gullies, his master greeted him with a “Hello, Sonny!” as usual; but to the dog’s quick perception there was a difference in his tone, a difference that was almost an indifference. Joe Barnes was absorbed. At other times, he was wont to seem warmly interested in Sonny’s welcoming antics, and would keep up a running fire of talk with him while the old sorrel plodded up the lane. To-day, however, Joe’s attention was occupied by the yellow-haired child beside him; and Sonny’s demonstrations, he knew not why, became perceptibly less ecstatic. It was of no consequence whatever to him that the child stared at him with dancing eyes and cried delightedly, “Oh, Unc’ Joe, what a pretty doggie! Oh, what a nice doggie! Can I have him, Unc’ Joe?”
“All right, Kid,” said Joe Barnes, gazing down adoringly upon the little red cap; “he’s yourn. His name’s Sonny, an’ he’s the best dawg ever chased a chipmunk. He’ll love ye, Kid, most as much as yer old Unc’ Joe an’ Aunt Ann does.”
When the yard was reached, the tall woman in the red calico waist was at the side of the wagon before the driver’s “Whoa!” brought the horse to a stop. The little one was snatched down from the seat and hugged vehemently to her heart.
“Poor lamb! Precious lamb!” she murmured. “I’ll be a mother to you, please God!”
“I want my mummie! Where’s she gone to?” cried the child, suddenly reminded of a loss which he was beginning to forget. But his aunt changed the subject hastily.
“Ain’t he the livin’ image of Jim?” she demanded in a voice of wondering admiration. “Did ever you see the likes of it, father?”
Under the pretence of examining him more critically, Joe took the child into his own arms, and looked at him with ardent eyes. “Yes,” said he, “the Kid does favour Jim, more’n his–” But he checked himself at the word. “An’ he’s a regular little man too!” he went on. “Come all the way up on the cars by himself, an’ wasn’t a mite o’ trouble, the conductor said.”
Utterly engrossed in the little one, neither Joe nor his wife gave a look or a thought to Sonny, who was leaping upon them joyously. For years he had been almost the one centre of attention for the childless couple, who had treated him as a child, caressing him, spoiling him, and teaching him to feel his devotion necessary to them. Now, finding himself quite ignored, he quieted down all at once and stood for a few seconds gazing reproachfully at the scene. The intimacy with Joe and Ann which he had so long enjoyed had developed almost a human quality in his intelligence and his feelings. Plainly, now, he was forgotten. His master and mistress had withdrawn their love and were pouring it out upon this stranger child. His ears and stub tail drooping in misery, he turned away, walked sorrowfully over to the horse, and sniffed at the latter’s nose as if to beg for some explanation of what had happened. But the old sorrel, pleasantly occupied in cropping at the short, sweet grass behind the well, had neither explanation nor sympathy to offer. Sonny went off to his kennel, a place he scorned to notice, as a rule, because the best in the house had hitherto been held none too good for him. Creeping in with a beaten air, he lay down with his nose on his paws in the doorway, and tried to understand what had come upon him. One thing only was quite clear to him. It was all the fault of the child with the yellow curls.
Sonny had had no experience with children. The few he had met he had regarded with that impersonal benevolence which was his attitude toward all humanity. His formidable appearance had saved him from finding out that humanity could be cruel and brutal. So now, in his unhappiness, he had no jealous anger. He simply wanted to keep away from this small being who had caused his hurt.
But even this grace was not to be allowed him. By the time Joe Barnes and Ann, both trying to hold the little one in their arms at the same time, had made their impeded way to the house, the little one had begun to find their ardour a shade embarrassing. To him there were lots of things better than being hugged and kissed. This shining green backwoods world was quite new to his city born eyes, and he wanted to find out all about it, at once, for himself. He began struggling vigorously to get down out of the imprisoning arms.
“Put me down, Unc’ Joe!” he demanded. “I want to play with my doggie.”
“All right, Kid,” responded Joe, complying instantly. “Here Sonny, Sonny, come an’ git acquainted with the Kid!”
“Yes, come and see the Kid, Sonny!” reëchoed the woman, devouring the little yellow head with her eyes. His real name was Alfred, but Joe had called him “the Kid,” and that was to be his appellation thenceforth.
Hearing his name called, Sonny emerged from his kennel and came forward, but not with his wonted eagerness. Very soberly, but with prompt obedience he came, and thrust his massive head under Joe’s hand for the accustomed caress. But the caress was not forthcoming. Joe simply forgot it, so absorbed was he, his gaunt, weather-beaten face glowing and melting with smiles as he gazed at the child.
“Here’s your dawg, Kid!” said he, and watched delightedly to see how the little one would go about asserting proprietorship.
The woman was the more subtle of the two in her sympathies. “Sonny,” she said, pulling the dog forward, “here’s the Kid, yer little master. See you mind what he tells you, and see you take good keer o’ him.”
Sonny wagged his tail obediently, his load of misery lightening under the touch of his mistress’s hand. He leaned against her knees, comforted for a moment, though his love was more for the man than for her. But he would not look at the Kid. He shut his eyes with an expression of endurance as the little one’s hand patted him vehemently on the face, and his stub tail stopped wagging. In a dim way he recognized that he must not be uncivil to this small stranger who had so instantaneously and completely usurped his place. But beyond this he could think of nothing but his master, who had grown indifferent. Suddenly, with a burst of longing for reconciliation, he jerked abruptly away from the child’s hands, wriggled in between Joe’s legs, and strove to climb up and lick his face.
At the look of disappointment which passed over the child’s face Joe Barnes felt a sudden rush of anger. Stupidly misunderstanding, he thought that Sonny was merely trying to avoid the child. He straightened up his tall figure, snatched the little one to his breast, and exclaimed in a harsh voice, “If ye can’t be nice to the Kid, git out!”
The words “Git out!” with the tone in which they were uttered, would have been comprehensible to a much meaner intelligence than Sonny’s. As if he had been whipped, he curled down his abbreviated tail, and ran and hid himself in his kennel.
“Sonny didn’t mean to be ugly to the Kid, father,” protested Ann, “He jest don’t quite understand the situation yet, an’ he’s wonderin’ why ye don’t make so much of him as ye used to. I don’t blame him fer feelin’ a leetle mite left out in the cold.”
Joe felt a vague suspicion that Ann might be right; but it was a very vague suspicion, just enough to make him feel uneasy and put him on the defensive. Being obstinate and something of a crank, this only added heat to his irritation. “I ain’t got no use fer any dawg that don’t know enough to take to a kid on sight!” he declared, readjusting the little red cap on the child’s curls.
“Of course, father,” acquiesced Ann discreetly; “but you’ll find Sonny’ll be all right.”
Here the child, who had been squirming with impatience, piped up, “I want to go an’ see my doggie in his little house!” he declared.
“Oh, no, Kid, we’re goin’ to let Sonny be fer a bit. We’re goin’ to see the calf, the pretty black an’ white calf, round back o’ the barn, now. You go along with Aunty Ann while I onhitch old Bill. An’ then we’ll all go an’ see the little pigs.”
His mind altogether diverted by the suggestion of such strange delights, the little fellow trotted off joyously with Ann, while Joe Barnes led the old sorrel to the barn, grumbling to himself at what he chose to call Sonny’s “ugliness” in not making friends with the Kid.
From that hour Sonny’s life was changed. In fact, it seemed to him no longer life at all. His master’s indifference grew swiftly to an unreasoning anger against him; and as he fretted over it continually, a malicious fate seemed to delight in putting him, or leading him to put himself, ever in the wrong. Absorbed in longing for his master, he hardly thought of the child at all. Several times, in a blundering effort to make things right with Sonny and the Kid, Joe seated himself on the back doorstep, took the little one on his knee, and called Sonny to come and make friends. At the sound of the loved summons Sonny shot out from the kennel, which had become his constant refuge, tore wildly across the yard, and strove, in a sort of ecstasy, to show his forgiveness and his joy by climbing into Joe’s lap. Being a large dog, and the lap already filled, this meant roughly crowding out the Kid, of whose very existence, at this moment, Sonny was unaware. But to the obtuse man Sonny’s action seemed nothing more than a mean and jealous effort to supplant the Kid.
To the Kid this proceeding of Sonny’s was a fine game. He would grapple with the dog, hug him, pound him gleefully with his little fists, and call him every pet name he knew.
But the man would rise to his feet angrily, and cry, “If that’s all ye’re good fer, git! Git out, I tell ye!” And Sonny, heartsore and bewildered, would shrink back hopelessly to his kennel. When this, or something much like it, had happened several times, even Ann, for all her finer perceptions, began to feel that Sonny might be a bit nicer to the Kid, and, as a consequence, to stint her kindness. But to Sonny, sunk in his misery and pining only for that love which his master had so inexplicably withdrawn from him, it mattered little whether Ann was neglectful or not.
Uneventfully day followed day on the lonely backwoods farm. To Sonny, the discarded, the discredited, they were all hopeless days, dark and interminable. But to the Kid they were days of wonder, every one. He loved the queer black and white pigs, which he studied intently through the cracks in the boarding of their pen. He loved the calf, and the three velvet-eyed cows, and the two big red oxen, inseparable yoke fellows. The chickens were an inexhaustible interest to him; and so were the airy throngs of buttercups afloat on the grass, and the yet more aërial troops of the butterflies flickering above them, white and brown and red and black and gold and yellow and maroon. But in the last choice he loved best of all the silent, unresponsive Sonny, of whose indifference he seemed quite unaware. Sonny, lying on the grass, would look at him soberly, submit to his endearments without one answering wag of the tail, and at last, after the utmost patience that courtesy could require, would slowly get up, yawn, and stroll off to his kennel or to some pretended business behind the barn. His big heart harboured no resentment against the child, whom he knew to be a child and irresponsible. His resentment was all against fate, or life, or whatever it was, the vague, implacable force which was causing Joe Barnes to hurt him. For Joe Barnes he had only sorrow and hungry devotion.
Little by little, however, Sonny’s lonely and sorrowful heart, in spite of itself, was beginning to warm toward the unconscious child. Though still outwardly indifferent, he began to feel gratified rather than bored when the Kid came up and gaily disturbed his slumbers by pounding him on the head with his little palm and tumbling over his sturdy back. It was a mild gratification, however, and seemed to call for no demonstrative expression.
Then, one noon, he chanced to be lying, heavy-hearted, some ten or a dozen paces in front of the kitchen door, while Joe Barnes sat on the doorstep smoking his after-dinner pipe, and Ann bustled through the dish washing. At such times, in the old happy days, Sonny’s place had always been at Joe Barnes’s feet; but those times seemed to have been forgotten by Joe Barnes, who had the Kid beside him. Suddenly, tired of sitting still, the little one jumped up and ran over to Sonny. Sonny resolutely pretended to be asleep. Laughingly the child sprawled over him, pulled his ears gently, then tried to push open his eyes. A little burst of warmth gushed up in Sonny’s sad heart. With a swift impulse he lifted his muzzle and licked the Kid, a generous, ample lick across the face.
Alas! as blundering fate would have it, the Kid’s face was closer than Sonny had imagined. He not only licked it, but at the same time bumped it violently with his wet muzzle. Taken by surprise and half-dazed, the Kid drew back with a sharp little “Oh!” His eyes grew very wide, and for an instant his mouth quivered as if he was going to cry. This was all Joe Barnes saw. Springing to his feet, with a smothered oath, he ran, caught the Kid up in his arms, and gave Sonny a fierce kick in the ribs which sent him rushing back to his kennel with a howl of grief and pain.
Ann had come running from the house in amazement. The Kid was sobbing, and struggling to get down from Joe’s arms.
Ann snatched him away anxiously. “What did Sonny do to ye, the bad dawg!” she demanded.
“He ain’t bad. He’s good. He jest kissed me too hard!” protested the little one indignantly.
“He hurt the Kid’s face. I ain’t right sure but what he snapped at him,” said Joe Barnes.
“He didn’t hurt me! He didn’t mean to,” went on the Kid.
“Of course he didn’t,” said Ann with conviction. “Father, ye’re too hard on the dawg. Ye hadn’t oughter have kicked him.”
An obstinate look settled on Joe Barnes’s face. “Yes, I had, too. ’N’ he’ll be gittin’ more’n that, ef he don’t l’arn not to be ugly to the Kid,” he retorted harshly. Then, with an uneasy sense that, whether right or wrong, he was in the minority, he returned to the doorstep and moodily resumed his smoking. Ann called Sonny many times to come out and get his dinner. But Sonny, broken-hearted, and the ruins of all his life and love and trust tumbled about his ears, would not hear her. He was huddled in the back of his kennel, with his nose jammed down into the corner.
Two days later it happened that both Joe and Ann went down together into the field in front of the house to weed the carrot patch. They left the Kid asleep in his trundle bed, in the little room off the kitchen. When they were gone, Sonny came out of his kennel and lay down in the middle of the yard, where he could keep a watchful eye on everything belonging to Joe Barnes.
It was the Kid’s invariable custom to sleep soundly for a good two hours of the early afternoon. On this afternoon, however, he broke his custom. Joe and Ann had not been ten minutes away, when he appeared in the kitchen door, his yellow hair tousled, his cheeks rosy, his plump fists trying to rub the sleep out of his eyes. His face was aggrieved, because he had woke up and found himself alone. But at the sight of Sonny the grievance was forgotten. He ran to the dog and began to maul him joyously.
His recent bitter experience raw in his heart, Sonny did not dare to respond, but lay with his nose on his paws, unstirring, while the child sprawled over him. After a few minutes this utter unresponsiveness chilled even the Kid’s enthusiasm. He jumped up and cast his eyes about in search of some diversion more exciting. His glance wandered out past the barn and up the pasture toward the edge of the forest. A squirrel, sitting on a black stump in the pasture, suddenly began jumping about and shrilly chattering. This was something quite new and very interesting. The Kid crawled through the bars and started up the pasture as fast as his sturdy little legs could carry him.
The squirrel saw him coming, but knowing very well that he was not dangerous, held his ground, bouncing up and down on the stump in vociferous excitement. When the Kid was within three feet of him, he gave a wild “K-r-r-r-r!” of derision, and sprang to another stump. With eyes dancing and eager little hands outstretched, the Kid followed–again and again, and yet again–till he was led to the very edge of the wood. Then the mocking imp in red fur whisked up an ancient hemlock, and hid himself, in silence, in a high crotch, tired of the game.
At the edge of the woods the Kid stopped, peering in among the shadows with mingled curiosity and awe. The bright patches of sunlight on the brown forest floor and on the scattered underbrush allured him. Presently, standing out in conspicuous isolation, a great crimson toadstool caught his eye. He wanted the beautiful thing intensely, to play with. But he was afraid. Leaning his face against the old fence, he gazed through desirously. But the silence made him more and more afraid. If only the squirrel would come back and play with him, he would not be afraid. He was on the point of giving up the beautiful crimson toadstool and turning back home, when he saw a little gray bird hopping amid the lower limbs of a spruce in among the shadows. “Tsic-a-dee-dee!” whistled the little gray bird, blithely and reassuringly. At once the shadows and the stillness lost their terrors. The Kid squeezed boldly through the fence and started in for the glowing toadstool.
Just as he reached the coloured thing and stooped to seize it, a sharp “Tzip, tzip!” and a rustling of stiff feathers startled him. Looking up, he saw a bright-eyed brown bird running hither and thither before him, trailing one wing on the ground as if unable to fly. It was such a pretty bird! And it seemed so tame! The Kid felt sure he could catch it. Grabbing up the crimson toadstool, and holding it clutched to his bosom with one hand, he ran eagerly after the brown bird. The bird, a wily old hen partridge, bent on leading the intruder away from her hidden brood, kept fluttering laboriously on just beyond his reach, till she came to a dense patch of underbrush. She was just about to dive into this thicket, when she leaped into the air, instead, with a frightened squawk, and whirred up into the branches of a lofty birch near by.
Bitterly disappointed, the Kid gazed up after her, still clutching the bright toadstool to his breast. Then, by instinct rather than by reason, he dropped his eyes to the thicket, and stared in to see what had frightened away the pretty brown bird.
At first he could see nothing. But to his sensitive little nerves came a feeling that something was there. Gradually his eyes, accustoming themselves to the gloom, began to disentangle substance and shadow. Then suddenly he detected the form of a gray crouching animal. He saw its tufted ears, its big round face, with mouth half open grinningly. Its great, round, pale, yellow green eyes were staring straight at him.
In his fright the Kid dropped his toadstool and stared back at the gray animal. His first impulse was to turn and run; but, somehow, he was afraid to do that–afraid to turn his back on the pale-eyed, crouching shape. As he gazed, trembling, he saw that the animal looked like a huge gray cat.
At this thought he felt a trifle reassured. Cats were kind, and nice to play with. A big cat wouldn’t hurt him, he felt quite sure of that. But when, after a minute or two of moveless glaring, the big cat, never taking its round eyes from his face, began to creep straight toward him, stealthily, without a sound, then his terror all came back. In the extremity of his fear he burst out crying, not very loud, but softly and pitifully, as if he hardly knew what he was doing. His little hands hanging straight down at his sides, his head bent slightly forward, he stood helplessly staring at this strange, terrible cat creeping toward him through the thicket.